The Crusader's Crown (Tales of the Brotherhood Series Book 1) by James Mercer (ink ebook reader txt) 📗

   “Thank you for your help Daniel. But you may go now.”

  As he started to ascend the stairs, the young priest looked back once to watch Robert lighting more of the torches that surrounded the tomb. It was far larger than he imagined.

  At the centre lay the stone crypt which held the blessed body of Saint Werburgh, patron saint of the city of Chester, and in her possession - since Robert and Reynard had placed it in her care - the most valuable treasure of the Brotherhood, The Turin Shroud.

  Pausing to gather his thoughts, Robert looked towards one of the stone blocks, upon which lay the ancient body of a past guardian. The man’s armour was at least two hundred years old.

  More guardians, who had been laid to rest with the Saint they had protected, also lay atop some of the other blocks of granite stone. Some were so old that all that was left were the fragile skeletons which had collapsed under the weight of their armour.

  Although there was a musky odour of death and decay, after so many years the smell had dissipated amongst the dust-covered tombs.

  Taking his father’s coffin, Robert dragged it over to a block which had not yet been claimed. Opening its lid, he looked upon his sire’s pale face. After Sir Roger’s death, preparations had been hurried to organise and allow for a service to take place in the Cathedral hall above.

  Robert was relieved that his father’s body had not started to decay before he could carry out his duty and lay his father to rest with his brethren. First lifting the body onto the stone block, Robert then retrieved Sir Roger’s armour and Brotherhood cloak from the coffin. He placed the newly polished coat of chainmail and positioned it over the body. He unstrapped the sword which hung from his belt and placed it on top of the mail along the front, then took Sir Roger’s hands and entwined them around the sheathed blade.

  Finally he placed the cloak over the knight’s entire front, covering both armour and sword. What could be more honourable than the recognition that here lay a knight of the Turin Shroud Brotherhood?

  Robert looked at the man for a few moments in silence.

   “I will honour the oath I have sworn to you and our Brothers. Be at peace knowing that I shall continue your work so you can rest with your fellow warriors. Nos defendant id quod est in nostra potestate.”

  Without another word he extinguished the torches and then began to climb the stairs. After replacing the vast slab back into the floor and carefully fixing the stone crucifix in place, he turned to Father Egbert and Daniel and wished them farewell. As he reached the doors which opened out onto a small square he stopped. Only after he had pulled his hood up over his head, did he wrench the oak panelled door open and step out into the cold night.

*****

Bridgenorth Castle, February, 1212

After the burial of Sir Roger, preparations were made. News of his death would be of use to the Barons of the north. There was little doubt that they would come and persuade Robert to join their collaboration or at least support it. There was also a likelihood of an upsurge in raiding parties from across the borders, with outlaws hoping to loot what they thought was a now vulnerable manor.

  How wrong they all were. Robert was no noble and he was the first to admit that. But he was not about to see Sir Roger’s legacy dragged through the dirt. On the two occasions that raiding parties had been sighted, Sir Robert and his men had been quick to intercept them before they could harm any of the surrounding villages.

  Outlaws had been caught when they were trying to break into a farmer’s house, and others when pillaging a small monastery which made a modest living making and selling bread.

  Robert had seen so much death already in his young life, but justice took precedence. When he looked upon the survivors of the raiding parties, and the outlaws who roamed the woodlands, he would think back to the first time he had taken a man’s life. A man of the cloth, whose soul was supposed to be clear of sin, when it was actually dark, filthy and evil. The priest had raped Kate when she was still just a girl and the memory had never left him.

  He knew full well, had they not been stopped, that these very raiders and outlaws would have done the same thing to the women and daughters of the lands he protected and the thought made him burn with retribution.

   “Hang them all,” he would order, ignoring their pitiful moans of despair.

It was mid-afternoon when Robert’s steward had hurried to his hall to report that there were riders approaching from the south.

   “Have the guard ride out to meet them and ask their business,” he ordered.

   “It is being carried out as we speak my lord,” the steward said nervously. “Master Nathanial ordered it.”

  Robert smiled. Of course his brother-in-law would have made such preparations as soon as the news reached him.

   “Very well. Let us go and see which Baron requests our support this time.”

  He arrived at the parapet of the gatehouse and walked to stand alongside Nathanial. The mounted troop of men who had ridden out to confront the visitors had stopped and by the looks of it were talking with them.

   “Do they fly a banner?”

   “No my lord. But whoever they are, they are reluctant to hand over their weapons,” Nathan replied squinting to see in the low light.

  Their line of sight